


Camomile, chocolate and rain

by thekarmapolice



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 12:56:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16040912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekarmapolice/pseuds/thekarmapolice
Summary: She faced her class, a kind smile painted on her lips, her hands laced in front of her, her voice always soft and measured.“You don't fool me,” he said, “everything about you is a lie.”She was a lie he wanted to break.Oneshot for the Tomione Smut Fest 2018





	Camomile, chocolate and rain

**Author's Note:**

> I broke the rules. There's a bit of plot in here.
> 
> Or perhaps I'm lying.

 

A thin veil of fog was rising in the air, hovering just above the lake, slithering through the trees, closing in on the castle, blanketing its grounds, the courtyards, the turrets.

The rain was pattering on the roof in a gentle  _tap-tap_ , the hesitant knocking echoing off the thick walls.

Tom hated it.

The rain. The sound was unnerving, it grated on his ears, its kindness fake and upsetting in a way he couldn't, no, wouldn't understand, taunting him with each sodding  _tap_.

But he still stood in front of the tall arched window, motionless on a step of the spiral staircase of the Magnus Tower, tracing the water drops washing the outside of the stained glass with his eyes, taking in the sound, this forgery, this fucking mocking-

Yes, he hated it, the rain and the fog and the noise, so much damn noise, but he was going to miss it. Salazar, he really was going to miss it.

 

* * *

 

"Miss, where are you going this summer?"

The woman standing before the desk grinned. She folded her arms over her chest and leaned back- brushing the wooden surface, not really resting her weight on the top.

Always holding back, always self-possessed to the point of compulsion.

"Sorry Evan, but better not say lest you guys decide to stalk me," she answered with a twinkle in her eyes. "Again."

"The Leaky Cauldron last year was a coincidence," Rosier muttered under his breath, dropping his head.

The professor merely laughed, shaking her head, her riotous curls bouncing about her shoulders. "A coincidence that you and Malfoy showed up when I was having lunch with Harry Potter in the most secluded corner of the Leaky Cauldron."

Rosier pouted, but at the mention of Harry Potter, a chorus of gasps and inappropriate questions rose.

"Why, Miss, will Auror Potter be with you?"

"Are you two dating?"

"Are you engaged?"

Rolling her eyes with a condescending smile, the woman denied everything and swiftly turned the focus back to her students, listening eagerly to their plans for the summer, nodding along with their excitement for the leaving feast later that evening. She placated their barely concealed groans at the prospect of sitting exams next year with encouragement and reassurance, speaking of her confidence in everyone's ability- while delicately rolling a scroll of parchment, her movements carefully measured.

Tom scowled.

Always pretending in her perfection. A forgery.

 

"See you later, kids."

 

Tom was snapped out of his morbid train of thought by the sound of chairs scraping against the floor. Sighing inwardly, he picked up his satchel and followed the people filing out the classroom.

“Bye, Professor,” Evelyn Greengrass waved her hand over Tom's shoulder, jabbing her elbow in his pectoral. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists not to push the overly enthusiastic Ravenclaw girl out of the way.

"I'll see you at the feast," the professor called back cheerfully from behind her desk, her hands already busy with the material for her next lesson. Indeed a few first-years were already waiting in the corridor, looking excited- because it was their last period or because their last class was Hermione Granger's, Tom didn't know. Probably both.

Against his better judgement, he looked back at Professor Granger, who was sitting relaxed in her chair and- looking back at him.

"See you later, Tom," she smiled, shaking a piece of parchment at him in a shooing motion, that damn twinkle not leaving her chocolate eyes.

_Fake fake fake_

Tom nodded curtly and left the classroom.

 

* * *

 

The rain had turned the earth to mud over the day. The smell of wet grass permeated the air, stinging his nostrils- still Tom kept walking, making his last patrol as a prefect into a stroll to take in the grounds one last time.

One summer. One whole summer away from Hogwarts, spent who knew where in London... but at least out of the orphanage.

Three months without the delicious food of the house-elves, without the books of the Restricted Section, without-

Tom tripped over a large root and almost kissed the ground if it hadn't been for a branch within reach.

Cursing loudly, Tom straightened his spine and glared at the offending piece of tree that had almost killed him.

“Five points from Slytherin.”

Tom whipped his head around. His jaw went slack.

There, on the bank of the Black Lake, was Professor Granger. He immediately composed himself and assumed an air of indifference, but fortunately the woman was keeping her back to him.

Bracing himself for a meeting he so didn't want to have, Tom silently walked down the sloping path and stopped to stand beside her at an acceptable distance.

“I've never heard you cuss, Tom.”

Her voice was quiet. She didn't look at him, her gaze still on the mass of water extending before them.

“I'm only human,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

Granger gave him a side-long glance that said,  _Could have fooled me_.

 _You are one to talk_ , he wanted to retort but held his tongue. He just shoved his hands in the pockets of his slacks and shifted his feet, his eyes trained on an indistinct point above the water.

“Prefect duties?” Granger inquired after an awkward minute of silence.

Tom didn't bother lying. “Not any more.”

The professor turned her head to look at him for the first time since that morning. She tossed her long curls over her shoulder and assumed a severe look that eerily resembled McGonagall's.

"Then off you go, Tom," she said, jutting her chin towards the castle behind him. "Goodnight."

“No.”

Granger's eyes widened. Tom's too, although not as comically as hers- he held his breath and wondered what exactly had made him answer back.

Never in six years he had spoken out of turn in the presence of a teacher.

And he wasn't regretting it either.

Clearing her throat, Professor Granger smoothly collected herself.

“You're off duty, Riddle,” she cautioned stiffly. “Go back inside.”

Tom didn't move one inch. He just felt... numb. Not quite himself.

She took a threatening step towards him. Any other student, hell, even any teacher would have cowered under the hard, cold look she threw his way. But as she neared him, Tom only thought she smelled of camomile and chocolate and fucking rain.

“Riddle,” she seethed, her eyes narrowed to slits, “go back to the castle, now.”

“No.” He was in for trouble now. “No, I don't feel like going back yet.”

Granger raised her eyebrows in an expression of complete shock, but it faded in a moment as a mask of cold fury slipped on her face. She parted her lips and Tom already knew what she was about to say, "Fifty points from Slytherin."

Tom pushed back his shoulders and sneered. "Take all the points you want, we already won the House Cup."

If he hadn't been blinded by his own flaring adrenaline he would have noticed the mask slightly cracking before his very eyes to reveal unguarded, genuine outrage, but she opened her mouth and he felt anticipation invading his chest.

She spoke in a low voice, "One month of detention in September, Riddle."

“Fuck you.”

The mask fell.

“What did you say?” Granger asked, blinking.

“I said,” Tom repeated slowly, his voice as calm as the unmoving water of the Black Lake, “fuck you.”

She advanced on him then, her arm already raised, but he managed to seize her wrist before the flat of her palm could make contact with his cheek.

Granger growled deep in her throat and Tom released her. His insides clenched when she backed away from him.

 

It was raining.

 

Raindrops started falling from the inky sky, gently, but soon the drumming sound became deafening.

Tom took a step forwards. Granger took one back, again, her limbs trembling, her curls straightening and plastered to her face in tendrils.

"You think you're so perfect," Tom spat over the rain pelting the trees. "You think you can deceive everyone with all your perfection and righteousness. You're not.”

Tom kept stalking towards her, but this time she didn't move. She stood there, petrified, her wide eyes fixed on him.

“You don't fool me,” he continued acidly, “everything about you is a lie.”

Step.

“You're fake.”

Step.

"It's just a farce. A mask you wear to hide the weakness inside you."

Step.

“You-”

He was now mere inches from her.

The reason for his obsession.

The reason why he noticed it. Her.

“You're like me.”

He saw her eyes widen even more and then narrow. She cocked her head to the side and laughed.

She laughed hysterically.

He wanted to strangle her.

 

But-

 

She was still panting heavily when she stopped and Tom regarded her as if she were a maniac, his eyes roaming over her petite figure, the white blouse and red plaid skirt she was wearing, the same attire of that morning. He glanced at her flustered face, her pink cheeks-

and he blinked, his gaze falling back to her chest.

It was rising and falling fast, dark lace and a hint of skin now visible through the thin, soaked fabric.

His breath caught in his throat.

Taking notice of his silence, Granger followed the direction of his gaze and gasped. She instantly crossed her arms in front of her chest with an undignified shriek, but it was too late, he had already seen and stored the image of her see-through blouse in the dark recesses of his brain, files to use later in the privacy of his bed. A nice addition to his fantasies, his addiction.

Tom stepped back. The professor glared at him in response and made to say something, but he didn't give her the time.

"Goodnight, Professor," he said softly but loud enough for her to hear him over the rain and the rising wind before turning around and retracing his steps to the castle.

He didn't look back.

 

* * *

 

His last year at Hogwarts began with warm air and the sun shining brightly in the sky. Not a mention of clouds in the Highlands.

It was better this way, Tom thought, walking down the corridors from one courtyard to another, a group of first-year Slytherins following him. He inwardly rolled his eyes every time they stopped to haa and woah at the sight of the ghosts gliding through the walls and paintings greeting them with a show of moving from frame to frame to follow them. The most impressionable kids were definitely muggle-borns and there were far too many in the House of Salazar Slytherin this year.

“Hello, Tom,” Hana Parkinson shot him an ardent look when she brushed his shoulder, walking past him. Tom nodded politely but didn't slow down.

Many of his peers greeted him on his way to the dungeons after giving the first-years a quick tour of the castle, most eyeing the Head Boy badge pinned to his chest with admiration and blatant desire.

But after the first couple days, life at Hogwarts returned to normalcy, lessons resumed and news wore off.

Not his obsession, though.

Double period of her class was pure torture. He sat still the entire time, methodically taking notes, looking at the whiteboard past her shoulders and carefully avoiding any eye contact.

Yes, Granger's class was his least favourite time of the week. He hated it.

Every time he saw her or heard her voice, even from a distance, the vivid memory of their last encounter broke through the barrier he had erected around it and pushed its way to the front of his mind, demanding attention.

Oh, he had given it a lot of attention.

Every night for the past three months he had disassembled the mental wards constructed around the carefully tucked away memory of her soaked clothes clinging to her curves- her wet pink, plump lips, her flaring eyes- to give it avid, unforgiving attention. And then, spent and left bitterly empty, he had put them up again, the wards. To ignore it altogether, whatever  _it_  was.

During the day, Hermione Granger was to be avoided.

 

It was on Tuesday of the second week that he realised she was avoiding him too. She was walking around the room to return their papers, pausing at times to offer her insights to a few students.

When it was his turn, the professor didn't even look at him. Tom sat rigidly in his chair, his hands resting awkwardly on the desk palm down while she placed the paper under his nose, careful not to touch his fingers in the process. He didn't look up and she didn't say anything.

Back to the dungeons that evening, slouched in the armchair closest to the fire, he finally drew the paper from his satchel. He felt his brow crease into a frown.

Not because she had given him an E, that was to be expected, even from her, but red swam in his vision. On the sides, in every available corner, a red tiny handwriting covered the parchment. It took Tom a moment to notice that not only she had corrected his work, but she had also added suggestions and highlighted what she liked. She was very subtly praising him and the realisation made his neck feel warm.

 

* * *

 

On the third week, the air around the castle grew colder and on Tuesday the pale sun disappeared behind a mass of grey clouds. After lunch, it started to drizzle.

It was her double period again. This time he couldn't sit still.

She was wearing a bloody white blouse.

She didn't seem to notice his discomfort, no one did, it was all in his head, and yet she kept up her facade of perfection and it unnerved him. She faced her class, a kind smile painted on her face, her hands laced in front of her, her voice always soft and measured.

A lie. He knew for sure now.

When the bell rang to signal the end of lessons for the day, Gryffindors and Slytherins eagerly left the classroom, the first in a much louder way. A few Slytherins actually wrinkled their noses. Feodor Nott even pretended to gag.

Tom was about to follow him out into the corridor when a familiar voice called him.

“Mr Riddle.”

He hadn't expected it. Keeping an impassive expression on his face, Tom swung around and approached the desk. Granger rose from her chair. She wasn't smiling. There was no twinkle in her eyes.

“Professor,” Tom said, looking down at her.

She looked right back at him. “Your detention still stands, Mr Riddle.”

He didn't try to react. “When?”

She answered without hesitation, “Every Wednesday and Friday at nine. My office.”

He fought his gaze from dropping to her chest. Sodding blouse.

“Fine,” he jerked out.

“Good,” she nodded. She resumed her seat and started correcting papers, not looking back at him. He had been dismissed.

 

* * *

 

Tom started picking up her imperfections. He collected them one by one, observed under the dim, warm light of the oil lamp in her office.

She scratched the inside of her forearm quite often. She ran her tongue over her front teeth. She tugged on her curls and narrowed her eyes when lost in her own head.

If he had two hours of doing nothing every Friday and Wednesday now, it was not his fault. Going over the papers he was supposed to check was unnecessary since the professor had already corrected everything, missing nothing and giving perfect insight to everyone. Granted, he still had to see an essay corrected and analysed like his last one, but he was impressed by the amount of care she put in the suggestions she offered each one of her students nonetheless.

His detentions were spent in comfortable silence, with her correcting papers or preparing lessons for the next day and him studying her.

If she was aware of his eyes on her, she didn't show it.

 

On Friday of the fourth week, Tom wanted to kill someone. He had left the Great Hall after lunch, Feodor following him since they were going in the same direction as usual, but in the middle of the Entrance Hall he had been forced to stop in his tracks. Feodor gave him a quizzical look, but words had deserted him. He could just stare ahead, at the man with the black hair and famous green eyes kissing Professor Granger's cheek.

Tom clenched his jaw when Harry Potter Conjured a bunch of small, white flowers and gave them to Granger with another long hug and kiss to her forehead.

 

Five minutes later Tom was in his dorm room, Vanishing the bouquet of camomile he had ordered from  _Floriblunders Florist._

 

* * *

 

It was raining that evening.

Tom hated the sound of the raindrops drumming on the roof of the tower more than ever. It reminded him this was all an illusion. It was mocking him.

She was mocking him.

She was wearing that fucking white blouse again. And that stupid red skirt.

Tom thought back to that afternoon: something unnamed surged in his chest, going down to corrode his insides.

“ _They are just friends_ ,” Feodor had reassured him once back in the dungeons. “ _My brother Theo is friends with him_.”

Then, when Tom had failed to acknowledge the new information, he had mumbled, “ _More than friends, actually._ ”

Then why was Tom still tasting ash in his mouth?

Because Potter could have been anyone else. She could belong to anyone else.

 

Granger was standing before the window, following the water drops staining the glass with her gaze.

Tom soundlessly pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. He made his way to the other side of the office and stood beside her. She exhaled when he placed a hand on her back, palm flat.

He was much taller than her, her head barely reached his chin.

“You like it”, he said, his voice quiet. “The rain.”

“I love it.” She didn't shake his touch off.

“I hate it.” He could be honest with her. He had already honestly told her to go fuck herself, there was no need for sweet lies and indifference now.

So he brought his nose to her neck, brushing her skin. Yes, she smelled of camomile, chocolate and rain.

“Why?”

“It mocks me.”

She waited for him to continue.

“It's a reminder of a lie.” He kissed her skin, a quick touch of his lips to that spot behind her ear. “This lie smells like it.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Her shoulders stiffened beneath his touch.

Tom let his hand move up her right shoulder and around her neck and slowly moved his hips against her back.

This time her gasp was soft but clear. She braced a hand on the windowpane.

“I can't stop thinking about it,” he murmured in her ear, his fingers grazing her collarbone. “That night, when it was raining. You were frustrated with me. It made me-”

Tom shifted his hips to tell her exactly what it had made him and she bit back a moan.

"And you were wet," he went on, "I could see through your blouse. You didn't want me to see. Do you want to know what I did with that memory?"

Hermione shook her head.

“No? Are you sure? You don't want to know how I used it in my fantasies of you?”

She shook her head again, her breathing growing heavy. Tom placed his other hand on her stomach.

“Because I always come thinking of you, Professor. Since your first day at Hogwarts last year. Yes, I hated you, but in all your perfection I knew you were like me-”

It was the second time he told her.

“Always looking for approval.”

His hands descended on her breasts but didn't dare touch yet.

“Every night I came thinking about you, how it would be like to break your fucking composure and just make you scream my name.”

Hermione made a sound deep in her throat as Tom thrust his hips forwards, his arousal resting against her bum. And then he squeezed her breasts, his fingers tightening around her flesh and the fabric of that damn white blouse.

Gritting his teeth, he moved his hand from her front to her back, slipping it under her red skirt. He palmed her, feeling for-

“You're wet,” he whispered in wonder and triumph.

Hermione didn't say anything but moaned when Tom rubbed her cunt through her knickers, opening her lips and spreading her wetness from the back to the front. The garment was soaked in an instant.

“You're so wet I now wonder if you've ever been the past few days, Professor.”

Granger just let her right hand join the other on the window to bend over while Tom kept rubbing her, making her sigh and shiver. She was so close to the window now, fully leaning against it, that her warm breath fogged the glass.

“Answer me, Hermione,” Tom hissed, plunging two fingers in.

“Y-Yes!” she cried out, her walls tightening around his cotton-clad fingers.

Tom smiled in delight, glad she couldn't see his face, and removed his fingers from her cunt. Granger didn't even protest when he pushed her skirt down her legs and roughly grabbed her arms to make her face him. She complied and shyly looked at him. The look on her face took his breath away: she clearly had bitten into her bottom lip at some point for now the flesh was red and swollen. Tom covered the small bruise with his thumb and looked in those chocolate orbs – unguarded and scared for the first time since that night.

“I want to fuck you,” Tom said calmly, even with his heart beating hard in his chest.

Hermione hesitated, only for a second, before whispering, “I want you to fuck me.”

That was enough for him.

He lunged for her with a growl, cupping her cheeks with his hands and smashing his lips to hers. He frantically moved his mouth over her, sucking and biting like a starved man, and only when he was sure she was real in his arms did he slow down. And then she kissed him back, nipping at his bottom lip, licking, asking for access, taking her fill. When their tongues met it was messy as they both wanted to explore the other, but Tom let her take what she wanted, he let her tongue taste him, graze his palate and entangle with him with groans.

Her hands were everywhere, buried in his hair, around his neck, fingers running down his back, slipping around his front, going south-

Tom lifted Hermione by the armpits and, ignoring her protests, deposited on her desk, not very gently.

“I should dock points,” she snapped at him with a glare.

“You may give me detention,” Tom assented, resuming their kissing, letting his hands work her blouse this time. His fingers fumbled with the many buttons and he was halfway through when suddenly his skin was touching lace and the white blouse was no more.

Hermione huffed at his accusing look, “You were taking too much time.”

She wandlessly Vanished her bra and knickers too, smirking at Tom's scowl, and then pushed herself to the edge of the desk to reach for his tie.

“No,” Tom stopped her, removing her hands. He took a step back to take a good look at her.

His heart leapt at the sight before him.

Hermione Granger sat there, on her desk, fully naked with her hair cascading in curls down her shoulders and back, her skin pink. She was staring at him, her lips parted, inviting. Her eyes filled with lust when Tom's gaze fell to her thighs.

She slowly spread them.

She was a vision plucked right out of one of his fantasies.

Hermione Granger, DADA professor, baring herself to him during detention.

“ _Fuck you_ ”, he had told her months before. He was certainly going to now.

His eyes fixed on her face not to miss any shift in her expression, he stepped closed to her and knelt on the floor, dragging her by the underside of her knees so her legs were on either side of him and her cunt just over his face.

“Tom,” Hermione called him, begging him to stop or just damn start, he didn't know. He would find out.

Claiming his first taste of her was like nothing he had ever felt before, it was like experiencing an unknown phenomenon, it was exciting and terrifying, but the second lick he gave her was like rain after eons of sun, welcome and intoxicating, oh so fucking intoxicating. The sounds she made as he sucked her clit and penetrated her with his tongue made him painfully hard. But this was about her, so he ignored his cock, and if he couldn't give her flowers he would give her an orgasm, no, two, and that's when he attached his lips to her clit and fucked her with his fingers.

“Tom!” Her hand buried in his hair, Hermione was bucking her hips against his face as he circled her clit with his tongue over and over again, applying different pressures, learning what made her cry out his name, what made her grip onto his hair tighten until her fingers scraped against his scalp.

When Tom added a third finger into her cunt and curled it against her wall, Hermione bucked her hips forwards again, and again, holding her moans as she came hard on his hand.

 

Tom stood with some difficulty on his numb legs and watched his professor- Hermione, as she tried to regain her breath, sprawled over the desk. He would have none of it.

"Tom?" Hermione asked, still panting, when Tom's belt hit the floor. She tried to lift her head to look at him, but he was already on her and she let her head fall back.

He made sure her eyes were open when he wordlessly Vanished his uniform.

Hermione smiled wearily, her eyes crinkled at the corners, “Five points to Slytherin.”

“Only five?” Tom smirked, taking her arm to make her stand. She tiredly followed him with a frown.

“I don't want to take you on the desk,” Tom explained, pointing to their feet.

"Yeah, because the floor is much more comf- waah!" Hermione shrieked when Tom shoved hard against her shoulders and he laughed when she fell on her bum.

"You stupid- Slytherin!" She squealed, grabbing his discarded belt and hurling it in his direction. Tom rolled his eyes and then smirked in ill-concealed arrogance when she shifted in wonder on the Cushioning Charm he had successfully put on the floor.

After Summoning his wand to mutter an incantation on the both of them, Tom knelt on the floor beside Hermione.

The young woman searched his face, for what he wasn't sure, but he guessed she had found it when she caressed his cheeks with both hands.

“I saw you this afternoon,” she told him, her fingers leaving his face.

Tom just looked at her, not trusting himself to speak.

“You saw me with Harry,” she said again. This time he nodded.

Hermione sat up. “You know there's nothing-”

“I know-” he tried to cut her short, but she continued.

“We're best friends, he was just-”

“Hermione, I know-”

“It's my birthday, it was a surprise, there's nothing-”

Tom covered her mouth with his, shutting her up. She melted against him and Tom pushed her back, making her lie down.

“I know,” he said again against her lips. It wasn't a lie, he knew.

Contemplating her, Tom inhaled.

“I thought you said you wanted to take me,” Hermione said airily, raising an eyebrow at him.

“ _Fuck_  you,” he automatically corrected her.

She raised her legs in invitation.

Tom positioned himself between them, about to enter her, but he stilled when Hermione pushed herself up again to trail her fingers down his taut stomach. He twitched when she took in his cock, her eyes widening slightly.

He cleared his throat. His voice didn't sound quite normal, "Like what you see?"

Hermione's gaze darted to his for a moment before falling back to his thighs. She nodded and averted her eyes, lying back.

Feeling his heart jump several beats, Tom grasped his cock and guided it to her entrance. He closed his eyes as he pushed in, feeling them rolling back behind his eyelids, feeling Hermione's walls stretching around his size, deliciously accommodating him. She was so fucking warm and tight he seized her legs and plunged deeper, making her sob. He withdrew and thrust in again, pushing himself inside her to the hilt.

“Tom, please,” Hermione whimpered, jerking her hips up to meet him.

Opening his eyes, he withdrew again and then thrust back, hard- he did it two more times, wanting to last as long as he could.

At last, he moved inside her. Slow, controlled movements grew into more frantic thrusts and Hermione met him all the way, moving her hips from side to side, spreading her legs wider, ordering him to place one over his shoulder, letting him drive his cock even deeper, head hitting bottom. He knew she was close when she started clenching and unclenching her walls around him.

“Fuck, Hermione,” Tom grunted, leaning forwards to devour her mouth, his hands buried in her curls, her tits pressed against his chest. The new position brought new friction against her clit and soon she was raking her nails down his back and clenching hard around him-

Arching her back, his witch cried out his name.

But Tom pushed his weight off her and braced his hands on either side of her head, relentlessly driving into her sex, watching her face, how lust didn't leave her chocolate glassy eyes, her lips parted and no sound escaping.

Tom pinched one of her nipples and Hermione's attention snapped back to him.

She responded by dragging her leg over his back, her heel digging into his ass.

He bit her neck. She bit his jaw. He gave her one particularly forceful thrust. She rolled them over with unexpected force.

He sucked her tits, she pushed him back, laughing as she rode him, looking like a goddess. He touched her all over, leaving marks, she was his now, that was the only truth he needed, and when her core tightened for the third time that night, Tom bared his teeth and let her shatter around him with a shout before pumping out his own orgasm.

Utterly spent, Hermione slumped against him, covering his body with her hot skin. Tom kissed the crown of her head and moved tendrils of hair plastered to her forehead.

For several minutes he just kept his eyes closed and listened to her heart thumping fast and breaths coming in small, broken pants until they both slowed down.

It was Hermione who eventually pulled away from him, but Tom was glad she didn't mention standing up but just readjusted herself against him, her head on his chest.

“It was-” she started, her voice hoarse.

“I know,” Tom nodded, his chin resting on the top of her head. He debated for a minute, but then he finally asked, “Is it always like this?”

Hermione lifted her head to stare at him in astonishment.

“Y-you mean,” she stuttered, “this was your first...”

Tom nodded, feeling his cheeks growing uncomfortably warm.

“Merlin, you really  _are_  good at everything,” she breathed, moving over him to straddle his hips. “I would have never guessed.”

Tom knew why exactly she would have never guessed. And he had gone to great lengths for her not to notice during the act. He had been getting a lot of practice in self-control.

“The boys talk,” he said instead, “I listen. I'm a good learner.”

“Good doesn't quite cover it,” Hermione chuckled.

Tom smiled lazily up at her. “Flattery won't take you anywhere, Professor.”

For just a moment, Hermione looked taken aback by the use of her title and Tom regretted it as soon as he registered her reaction, but she swiftly distracted him by shifting her hips down his thighs.

"Won't it?" she challenged him, a wicked grin twitching on her lips. "You're in detention, Mr Riddle. You do what your professor says."

“Fuck you.”

This time she did.

 


End file.
